


Silhouettes

by AMiserableLove



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:36:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMiserableLove/pseuds/AMiserableLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of unrelated works of various lengths and ratings, prompted on tumblr. Bethyl only. *some pieces may contain smut*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt: Hi! I really need a fic where Daryl doesn't meet up with Joe and the other guys. Instead he keeps looking for Beth and rescues her leading to a really sweet first kiss. Could you write it?
> 
> Disclaimer I don't own The Walking Dead.
> 
> Review Please! :

* * *

It takes three days for him to find her.

And when he scoops her up into his arms—the familiar scent of leather, sweat and dirt invading her nose—she can't help the muffled sob that escapes her lips. Her head dropping limply to his chest, and her eyes squeezing shut tight, she tries to calm her breathing as he carries her out of the room, whispering in her ear in a gruff yet surprisingly gentle voice, for her to keep her eyes closed and not to look; his grip shifting a little and holding her closer as he carefully moves down the long staircase towards the front door, intent on leaving her house of horrors behind.

She looks anyway.

And she knows she should be alarmed by the intense thrill of satisfaction she feels as she sees the beaten and mangled bodies of those who had taken her littered across the floor. But tired, and weak, and unbelievably grateful she allows herself the small moment of pure unadulterated relief.

When they get outside the sunlight is harsh and unforgiving, the air cool and welcoming, and she squints and burrows, if possible, even deeper into his hold, her eyes having trouble adjusting after being locked away for days on end in the small and cramped room, her lungs greedily breathing in the fresh and crisp air.

Taking the car that had been used to abduct her, its darkened windows making her cringe a little, her heart racing as memories of the night they had stolen her away from him sneak into her brain, they drive to a cabin not too far away from where she'd been kept, a small little shack in the middle of nowhere, one he tells her he found the second night into his search for her.

Once inside, he guides her to the small bed that sits in the corner of the main room and helps her clean the bloodied cuts that mar the pale skin of her wrists, the rope burns and deep scratches sending a stinging pain shooting up her arms as he gently wipes away the dirt and grime with what she supposes passes for a clean rag these days—his eyes focused and lips set in a thin and hard line.

Hands shaking, and chest heaving a little at both his close proximity and unwavering attention, she sucks in a sharp breath as the cloth passes over her reddened and sore skin, the small sound bringing his focus back to her and causing his eyes to narrow slightly, something that closely resembles concern flickering in his gaze.

"Hurts a little." she whispers softly, her throat feeling dry, pulse jumping and racing rapidly as he nods and sweeps his thumb across her wrist lightly—the tender gesture coupled with the rough calloused feel of his finger sending a burn and thrill shooting through her body, her eyes widening a little as she watches the steely blue of his gaze darken, his posture stiffening and jaw clenching tightly.

"You hurt anywhere else?"

There's an edge to his tone, something low and almost threatening, the beginnings of fury lighting in his stare, his obvious anger only dimmed by the dark shadows of fear that linger in his gaze.

"I'm alright." Her tone is soft and if her words waver and her breath hitches a little, she tells herself it's from exhaustion; she's not a little girl and she doesn't get to cry over a few nights spent tied up and alone in a cold and dark room, the sounds of her abductors murmured conversations drifting to her ears.

It could've been worse.

Could've been a lot worse.

Something passes over his features, his hardened expression melting away; emotions—concern, fear, relief, and something else she can't quite pinpoint—playing out over his face before he draws his hand away from her wrist completely and motions to the bed.

"Sleep."

The word hangs somewhere between a gruff command and a softly spoken request, and closing her eyes for a moment she allows herself a tiny smile at the raspy and familiar tone; the warm feeling of his presence at her side making her feel safe, protected, and oddly cherished.

She had known he'd come.

Hadn't given up hope for a second that he was out there. Somewhere. Searching for her.

Opening her eyes again, she looks at him closely, watching as his gaze lingers a little on her hands, staring at the torn skin and purple bruises, his spine still ramrod straight, one hand clenching into a tight fist at his side.

And feeling something foreign and terrifying and yet strangely beautiful seep its way into her veins at the sight, coursing through her and sparking something low in her belly, she doesn't give herself a chance to think—too tired and sore and grateful to allow herself to truly consider her actions. Leaning forward slowly, tilting her head up ever so slightly, she places a hand on either side of his face, the scruff of his beard tickling her palms as she watches with a touch of wry amusement as his eyes flit up to hers—alarm, confusion, and something slightly darker and somewhat thrilling flashing in his stare.

"What are you—"

"Thank you." She whispers it softly, before closing the already small distance between them and brushing her lips over his, once, twice, the gentle nearly chaste contact sending a jolt of almost shocking heat straight through her, a part of her appreciating the rough and chapped feel of his lips against hers even as a voice in her head questions her actions; another smaller somewhat calmer tone whispering to her knowingly, acknowledging that this feels right, that this _is_ right, before she pulls back slowly, eyes fluttering open to find him staring at her curiously, rigid disbelief stamped across his rugged features.

"Beth…"

His tone is strained, slightly broken and just a fraction lower than normal, and knowing that he's probably on the verge of hollerin' at her—people don't just go around planting kisses on Daryl Dixon—she pulls further away from him, her body protesting the loss of his warmth as she settles back on the bed slowly, the tension coiled up inside of her fading gradually as she lays down on the springy and creaking mattress, her tongue sneaking out of its own accord to trace her lips.

And there's not even a small part of her that regrets it—the brief kiss, the enticing heat, and the earthy taste of him—everything implanted in her brain and permanently committed to memory.

"Don't go." she murmurs it quietly, closing her eyes as she feels rather than sees him move further from her on the bed, her slight high beginning to fade as numbing and unyielding exhaustion starts to sink in once again. Reaching out a hand, eyes still closed, impending sleep slowing her movements, she touches his arm, feeling him stiffen a little beneath her fingertips, the sound of his sharp intake of breath drifting to her slightly buzzing ears.

"Stay." Her voice is small and bordering on weak, but too tired to care, she disregards the pathetic sound completely, selfishly too concerned with her own wants and needs to let it really bother her. Cracking open an eye, she swallows over the sudden lump that has formed in her throat, forcing back the wave of almost worrying nervousness that's threatening to roll over her. "I mean…can you just sit here for a little while…just—just until I fall asleep?"

He doesn't say anything at first; the silence between them loud and deafening as she holds her breath and waits for him to push her away, for him to roll his eyes and berate her for being naive and weak and helpless and all the things she knows she's not but silently fears he thinks of her anyway.

It takes only a moment before he moves again; the bed creaking and dipping once more as she feels him shifting a little beside her, drawing closer to her ever so slightly, his legs brushing against hers as he pushes himself further up on the mattress so that he's sitting against the wall and facing the bolted up windows and rotting front door—a shock of relief and gratitude spiking through her and a small smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth as he settles in next to her.

"Okay." He mutters, gaze focused on the door, one hand resting on the crossbow that lays at the edge of the bed, the other tapping out some random beat on his upper thigh. "Okay."

Closing her eyes again, she sighs softly and allows herself to pretend, for just a moment, that the last few days of fear and worry and dread and despair hadn't happened, chasing the dark thoughts and memories away—the distant sounds of her own hopeless screams echoing in her ears and fading away as her breathing evens out and she finally allows herself to relax.

And if she feels the barest hint of a touch ghost its way across her battered wrists, lingering for only a moment as she hovers on the cusp of unconsciousness, she doesn't even flinch, too afraid to show it, terrified she'll scare him away.

Instead she sleeps.

And he stays…

* * *

**Review?!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: beth tending to daryl's wounds on his back and seeing his scars...
> 
> I decided to make this fairly vague in terms of timeline, you as the reader can headcanon it, placing it wherever you'd like.

The silence in the small dimly lit room is nearly deafening, the air heavy and thick and all too still.

Attempting to focus on her task, she carefully wrings out the wet cloth in the small bowl in front of her, the sound of trickling water breaking the tense and uncomfortable quiet. Eyes downcast and focused on the chipped and worn dish, her hands shake a little as she sucks in a deep breath and clears her throat, shifting her attention to the man sitting rigidly in front of her—his spine ramrod straight, head tilted down and breathing slightly heavy. Gaze drifting over the large bloodied gash that mars his dark and dirty skin, she pulls her lower lip into her mouth, worrying it gently between her teeth as she stares, unblinking, at his naked back, noting with a lump in her throat the scars, both old and new—smooth faded white and rough and jagged pink—that accent his most recent wound. And as her eyes roam over the sight carefully, drinking in every broken and gruesome detail, she bites a little harder on her lip, stopping only when she tastes blood, clenching her jaw together tightly as she tries to push down the jarring pang that has suddenly settled deep inside her chest.

"Just gonna sit there and stare all day?" his voice is low—a raspy and rough growl—and starting a little at the sound, she tears her eyes away from his torn and battered flesh, trying to steel herself a little as she attempts to collect her jumbled and scattered bearings.

She won't cry.

Not now.

Not in front of him.

Not _for_ him.

He'd never forgive her for it.

"Might sting a little." she whispers the words in a soft apologetic tone, and his answering grunt followed by a swift shrug of his shoulders—tight muscles rippling with the small movement—does nothing to soothe her frazzled and frenzied nerves.

Reaching out tentatively, she wipes the wet rag over the bleeding wound once, wincing a little at the way he stiffens with the touch—a quiet curse hanging in the air between them at the barely there stroke. Pausing, rag hovering over his skin, she hesitates for a moment, swallowing over her suddenly narrowed throat as she freezes, terrified of hurting him any further—the map of his pain laid out before her nearly unbearable, even as she silently acknowledges that the dirtied cut needs to be cleaned and dressed, reminding herself that now is not the time to be weak.

A panicked voice in her head whispers she's not strong enough for this.

A calmer, somewhat louder one assures her that she is.

"Go on."

There's a clear and lingering note of loathing in his tone, the sound drawing her attention back to him, her eyes widening a little as she watches his hands curl into tight fists at his sides, his spine stiffening, if possible, even more, eyes still shadowed and averted from her searching gaze. And whether he's upset with her or himself she's not entirely certain, a feeling in her gut strongly suggesting the latter as something fierce and protective sparks to life inside of her, itching to soothe, wanting to reassure him that he could never ever disgust her.

The mere thought makes her cringe.

The gathering wetness in her eyes burning and stinging and threatening to spill over.

Words of comfort and support on the tip of her tongue, she bites them back, opting to remain silent instead, knowing he'd appreciate it, _prefer it_ —intent on doing what she can for him, determined to erase away as much of his pain as possible.

Blinking back the infuriating and frightening prick of tears as she raises her free hand slowly, her trembling fingers skim the raised and rough skin in front of her, following the path the now bloodied cloth had taken, watching carefully as he stiffens even further—hands flexing once, breath coming in sharp at the gentle and feather-light touch.

He hates this.

She knows he does.

Being cared for, touched, and tended to.

Straightening a little, mind racing and ears buzzing, she tries to collect herself once more, taking note with a vague sense of awe the sight of her skin, smooth and pale, against his, rough and dark, as she dips the rag into the bowl again and lifts it, sliding it slowly over his torn and bruised flesh, watching somewhat dazedly as the water trails down his back in reddish brown streaks.

Neither of them speaks again as she continues her work.

And as the silence around them grows, the tension rising in almost visible waves, she focuses on the chore. Working carefully, _diligently_ ; she pushes away her grief and concern, trying to steady the jump in her pulse as her mind cruelly attempts to place just how he got each and every scar—made-up scenarios flashing in her head in crushing and vivid detail...

A drunken angry father.

A stupid and senseless bar fight.

A mean and ruthless brother.

Annoyed with herself, frustrated with the images as they harshly taunt her, she attempts to harness what's left of her slowly dwindling strength, her emotions threatening to take over and consume her whole. Squaring her shoulders and pushing her feelings aside—despair, panic, fear, compassion, sadness—she continues to clean him up, her lower lip finding its way between her teeth again when he hisses out a short breath as she picks up a small set of tweezers and gently digs out what ingrained debris she was unable to wash away.

She's not sure how long they stay like that; the soft glow of the candles around them providing her only light, the scent of dirt and blood and sweat hanging in the air, the mingled sound of their heavy breathing disrupting the quiet, her eyes squinting and focused, his cast down to the floor. It seems like an eternity; seconds tick by into minutes, and minutes drag on into forever, until eventually, _finally_ , she's smoothing a bandage over him, and wiping her dampened brow with her forearm; her legs shaky and weak as she moves away from him slowly, a soft and uneasy breath slipping past her lips as he grabs his shirt and throws it over his head.

And gathering her things—tired and watery eyes fixed on her task, unsteady hands stained with his blood—she stills, freezing completely, as he stands up quickly, his body brushing against hers ever so slightly, dirt covered hand reaching out towards her and stopping just short of touching before pulling back abruptly.

"Beth..." his voice is hoarse and raspy and the deep tone startles her a little, tweezers dropping back into the small dish with a soft clang, her gaze snapping up to meet his—bright and vibrant blue staring at her hard and searching, the intensity of it stealing the breath from her lungs as she tilts her chin up, angling her head just so. Holding her stare for a moment, body shifting, moving towards her slightly before drawing further away, his eyes implore hers silently, their dark depths sparking with varied emotions and a handful of unsaid words.

She can see the gratitude there, vague and uncertain, shadowed only by a desperate and unspoken plea...

The last thing he wants is her pity.

Silence continuing to linger, only drawing out the tension between them as neither of them move, uncertain what to do and unsure what to say, she finally clears her throat and nods once, offering him a tiny tremulous smile, watching with a dim sense of relief as the stiffness eases from his shoulders fractionally and he shoots her what passes for a small and forced smirk, before tearing his gaze from her and turning away, heading towards the door on the far side of the room—his stride a little less fluid than usual, a slight limp to his gait.

It isn't until she hears the door open and close behind him—a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in whooshing out of her lungs in one fast stuttering puff of air—that she slowly lowers herself to the ground, her legs threatening to give out on her as she continues to linger on the sight of his damaged and marred back—images of the twisted and angry flesh permanently implanted into her brain.

And as her tears fall, sliding down her cheeks in wet and damning trails, she silently promises herself _and him_ , that this will be the one and only time she ever cries for him...

For his past.

For what he was.

For what he wasn't.

Before she locks it up and puts it away...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr prompt: bethyl first kiss maybe once they are all somewhere safe and feeling less vulnerable. I like how you mix fluff and angst with bethyl so nothing overly sweet please!

She knows he doesn’t think he’s good enough for her.

Too old.

Too worn.

Too crass.

Too much.

_Not enough._

Nothing but a redneck with a decent aim and a knack for survival.

A broken man who let her down.

And she knows she should be mindful of his apprehension, should respect his fear, and doubt and misplaced sense of _guilt._ But in a world where everything is so dark and bleak and cruel and cold, she’s not selfless enough to give him up and let him go, not when he makes her feel safe and warm and excited and _alive._

Not when she’s fully aware how fast everything can be ripped away.

_Gone forever._

So, because she’s tired and frustrated, and yes maybe even more than a little terrified, she stops thinking for a moment, shuts off her brain, and just gives in and _acts_ —swallowing his usual string of protests by pressing her lips against his and silencing him abruptly.

It might almost be funny, the surprised little grunt he makes at the contact, the way his entire body stiffens and tenses; that is, of course, if the whole world hadn’t decided to stop spinning at that moment, if all the air hadn’t decided to just up and flee her lungs entirely.

Still, she’s waited long enough— _too long—_ for this moment and feeling his lips, warm and just a little chapped against hers, she can’t help but lean into him and silently demand _more_ — shifting her body just so, a part of her appreciating the way they’re flushed against each other while another part of her, a slightly less coherent part, revels in the fact that he hasn’t pulled away just yet.

Quite the opposite actually…

He makes another noise in the back of his throat, the tiny groan sounding almost pained, somewhat defeated, and then his lips are moving against hers roughly, his tongue darting out to tangle with hers in a dominant almost sloppy rhythm, until he’s finally, finally, giving in and taking what she’s so shamelessly offering.

And she loves it.

Thrills in it.

The scruff of his beard scratches her skin, and she relishes the harsh and abrasive feeling; his hands, big and rough and slightly clumsy, sweep up and down the sides of her body in random and uncertain movements, as if he doesn’t know how to use them—what to do with them, where to put them. And rocking his hips into hers—a quick nearly unconscious jerk of his body—his feet shuffle forward a little, forcing her back until she’s pressed up against the wall, until she can feel him, _all of him,_ strong and solid against her—her blood thrumming hot in her veins, everything slowing and going slightly hazy.

And she knows she should be careful—their heavy breathing and broken pants sounding like gunfire in the dark and empty hall—but she’s thought about this for far too long, imagined exactly what it would be like for too many months—accidental touches and lingering eye contact taking its toll on her—that she just can’t help herself, can’t stop from giving into the urge to fist her hands into his hair and draw him, if possible, even closer, breathing in the earthy and decidedly male scent of him.

It feels right.

And so very, very little does these day.

Pulling away on a strangled grunt, he presses his forehead against hers and stares at her unblinkingly, sweeping his gaze down her body and then up again, blue eyes dark and focused, the intensity in them so hard and burning that maybe a year or two ago it would have scared her, would have had her backtracking and high-tailing it out of there. But now it only brings a rush of warmth to her belly, a spark of heat dancing across her skin as she meets his eyes somewhat defiantly, refusing to look away from his silent and heavy appraisal—chests heaving, kiss-swollen lips mere inches apart.

"Shouldn’t be doing this…"

His voice trails off, gruff and hoarse, and she can hear the uncertainty in his tone, the nearly frantic plea woven within it—the low and desperate sound bringing a slight shudder to her body, one she’s just barely able to suppress. And with his words, the way he’s still crowding her—fingers clutching at her hips and digging into her skin almost painfully, his breathing somewhat erratic, and body shaking slightly—she realizes that he’s just as damned as she is…too far gone, unable to ignore this thing between them any longer.

And she knows he’s silently asking her to.

Needing her to be the one strong enough to walk away…

She can see it in the way he’s looking at her, eyes conveying both his deepest wishes and darkest fears.

But she can’t.

She can’t give him that, can’t let him push her away; selfishly she wants him too much, needs him so much that it _physically hurts;_ the thought of denying him— _them_ —any longer bringing a deep ache to her chest, the pain resonating throughout the rest of her body as she thinks about the grief and terror she had felt when separated from him, the joy at being reunited, and the strong and slightly awkward pull that lingered— _still lingers_ —between them as they tried to get reacquainted.

So rather than heed his unspoken request, she pulls back for just a moment, flashes him a soft slightly apologetic smile, and loosening her grip on his hair she shifts and moves her body, drawing her arms from around his neck so that they’re wrapped around his waist instead, resting her head against his chest and holding him close in a tight and unyielding embrace—the hammering sound of his heartbeat against her ear soothing her nerves a bit, just another sign that he’s just as affected by her as she is by him.

He lets her hold him like that for a little while, his hands still stiffly placed at her hips, his unsteady breathing tickling the top of her head as it comes in and out in broken little bursts. And for now it’s enough, the warmth of him seeping into her skin, the familiarity of him making her feel calm and protected and oddly cherished.

And when he brushes his lips over her hair in a gesture that’s so awkwardly gentle and endearingly comforting that it brings a surprising prick of tears to her half-closed eyes, she only hugs him tighter, knowing that this moment can’t last forever but intent on drawing it out for as long as possible.

Maybe in the morning things will be different.

Harder.

More complicated.

They’re both flawed and broken in their own messed up ways and nothing rarely comes easy to anyone anymore.

But with her arms wrapped around him and the world dark and quiet and peaceful for once…

It’s enough.

Right now, tonight, it’s more than enough…

It’s perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wouldn’t it be sad if beth lost that part of herself that sets her apart from the rest?

Her thoughts tend to wander somewhat aimlessly, a little bloodier now, a fraction too dark; her words come out a touch quieter, the urge to speak them slightly less frequent.

And she knows this worries them.

Notices how they’ve withdrawn from her.

Feels the way they watch her.

Hovering.

Waiting.

She’s not the same.

_Damaged goods._

(She wishes they wouldn’t stare so much).

Sometimes she looks into a cracked mirror, glances at a passing window, stares at her reflection in a still and quiet stream; and she tries to see what they see. Squints real hard, looks real closely for a hint of the broken girl who unconsciously haunts them all.

Instead she sees eyes that have cooled and hardened, hands that have gone dark from too much blood, lean muscle in the place of skin and bone, and a face scarred with the mark of her own survival.

She can’t find the quiet and reserved girl from her daddy’s farm, or the soft surrogate mother from their fallen prison.

(That person wouldn’t have gotten this far anyway).

And she knows it bothers them.

Senses it in the way they try to make her smile with forced jokes and too kind gestures; notices it in the way they ask her to sing—their disappointment obvious when she averts her gaze and whispers _maybe later._

And while the rest of them tip-toe around her, shooting her looks with eyes that are sad and full of sorrow—their uncertainty hitting her deep in the gut as a voice inside her screams out against her inner turmoil _—I’m right here! I made it! I made it! I survived!—_ he doesn’t treat her like glass, isn’t afraid to break what everyone else assumes is already so broken.

He doesn’t attempt to bring her back.

Knows there ain’t no use in trying.

And she thinks (hopes) that even if he could he wouldn’t.

Considers that maybe he likes her just fine the way she i _s…_

Bruised and battered and carrying what’s left of her hope deep inside, keeping it all for herself, holding on tightly, afraid to let it stray too far.

He knows he can’t heal her wounds or soothe her guilt; can’t erase the constant hurt and pain that lingers just around the edges of her consciousness; is unable to change the memories of each and every one of the unforgivable acts she’s been forced to commit. He’s lived a little longer, saw the world at its worst even before it had become the shell of the one they were born into. He accepts her, understands her. So instead he shares his own suffering and grief, exposing his fears with low and deliberate whispers while challenging their misery with tough and jarring words.

And when soft murmurs, mumbled truths, and rattling yells still aren’t enough, he distracts her with branding touches and unspoken promises that tingle and burn and force her to forget—taking her under a sky that has borne witness to each and every one of their sins.

It’s then that she feels most at peace.

It’s then that she allows herself to think that maybe, someday, things will be all right once more.

(And sometimes after, when the night is silent and it feels as if the whole world has finally, _finally_ , settled; she hums a quiet song, mouths the words softly, and tries to give him a glimpse of the girl that once was).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Slighty smutty baby bit. This was written after Slabtown but before Coda...*sigh*

There's a loud buzzing in her head as her fingers falter and fumble, trembling a little before digging into the soft fabric of his worn and faded vest. A low voice—one she barely recognizes as her own—echoes in her ears, frantically questioning her actions as she tugs him forward and presses against him, molding herself into him as her lips hungrily move against his in a fast and near frantic rhythm—her feet shuffling awkwardly and body arching willingly.

She feels desperate.

Shameless.

_Insatiable_.

Still, through the thick haze of lust and desire that clouds her brain and fogs her focus, she can feel the very real threads of fear and anxiety as they begin to ball deep in her gut before spreading slowly, threatening to take root and consume. There's a part of her that knows that she should give herself a moment _, one moment,_  to think and consider; to weigh her actions, and slow her heart rate. But even more than the growing uncertainty and mounting trepidation she can't help but think and concentrate on one single thought, repeating it softly, tauntingly; a selfish mantra, a repetitive and unholy chant…

More.

More.

_More!_

She wants more.

Needs it.

Craves it.

_Demands it._

Swallowing what's left of his gruff and lingering protests— _she's too young, he's not what she wants, she don't know what she's doing, it aint right_ —she gives herself over to feeling and sensation only; a part of her thrilling a little as she feels strong and calloused hands finally,  _hesitantly_ , come up to clumsily grip her hips; moving almost as if to push her away before pulling her towards him roughly on a desperate and broken grunt, further trapping her against muscle, leather, and heat.

So much heat.

Too much heat.

And Lord she knows she's being reckless.

Rash.

Impulsive.

Knows that her actions won't come without consequences.

But after days, weeks, months,  _forever;_  they're finally alone—no watchful eyes, whispered questions, or curious and inquiring stares. And the room is dark and her skin is hot and something inside of her is stirring and awakening and finally she feels as if she's about to really start living again.

(She's felt nothing but dead and cold and empty for far too long.)

They've been dancing around this for a while now—memories of parlor songs and pigs feet, of unanswered questions, and never giving up flooding her fast—so even though her heart is pounding and her vision is blurring, despite the way her stomach is in knots, and her hands are trembling, she knows it's okay.

_It's right._

So when the world tilts a little and her back hits the mattress with an undignified little thud—his body covering hers as she curves herself into him, needing to feel his weight pressed against hers—she forces herself to relax; chases away the anxiety and doubt with the taste of his lips on hers. Cigarettes and canned peaches lingering on his tongue, stale and sweet, and  _familiar._  Speeding things up in a blur of hastily removed clothes and unvoiced apprehensions—fumbling fingers, heaving breaths, and heated wet kisses—she blocks out the now quieter voices in her head, steadies her nerves, and gives herself over completely, silently appreciating and accepting the fact that she  _can._

Her choice.

Her decision.

_Hers._

(She won't think about the last time a man's hands were on her, won't let her body remember clammy fingers working their way under her shirt, won't picture dark and malicious eyes undressing her without consent.)

(Won't consider what happened  _after_.)

(It was only a matter of time before this world turned them all into some kind of killer.)

Absorbing the feel of him above her, pressing into her—branding, burning, consuming—she promises herself that no matter what happens next, whatever comes after; this moment, right here, right now, will forever be embedded deep in her memory, ingrained until her dying day.

(She refuses to think about how soon that may be, rejects the morbid thoughts of how close she's come to losing herself and  _him_  already.)

Closing her eyes as he curses low under his breath before moving to settle between her thighs, she grips his shoulders—knuckles going white with the effort—and nods her head once, signaling her answer when he whispers her name in one last devastating and nearly pained question of consent.

And as the world quiets…

As the death and hopelessness, despair and loss, that she's been carrying around with her begins to ease and fade…

She holds him tight, breathes in the scent of him, revels in the feel of him, and finally,  _finally_  remembers what it feels like to be  _alive._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this way before the mess that was Coda aired...

 

_*Survivor.*_

* * *

 

For the most part they leave her be.

For the most part they give her space, understanding, time.

And she appreciates it.

Needs it.

(Craves it in a way she's ashamed to admit to.)

The road to Alexandria had been a long and painful one for all of them. She's heard the whispers about a place called  _Terminus,_ about how far humanity really has fallen; and knows the blood and anguish is better left behind. So instead of focusing on it, instead of letting it fester and grow and spread and _consume_ , she files it away with the rest of the hurt and suffering she's seen and experienced as she tries (fails) to keep her own horrors while away from the group— _her family_ —carried deep inside of her, laid to rest with those she's long since lost and buried.

And everyone else seems pretty determined to move on anyway.

The initial shock of finding Alexandria, of being accepted into its walls wearing off, she watches from a distance as they attempt to start over, to tentatively build a new life with mundane chores and censored conversation as they slowly begin to find hope again.

And she wants to join them.

Wants to shed herself of the constant fear and gruesome blood-filled memories.

The overwhelming misery.

The cold and suffocating despair.

But no matter how hard she tries, how fiercely she attempts to keep her burdens buried and hidden and locked away, she can't help but feel dark and tainted.

Ruined.

_Infected._

She's been threatened, touched, broken and beaten down.

And yet…

She survived.

Still, there's a part of her that's uncertain if she can ever go back—that's unsure if she ever  _wants_  to go back—to the naïve farm-girl, who believed that there was still good people in the world while putting too much faith and trust in others.

And that scares her, has that sliver of optimism, of integrity, and goodness, and decency— that somehow, through it all managed to remain unscathed—screaming out and crying foul; begging for her to not lose all hope, to not become yet another hardened soul in a world that's gone to hell.

(After all, just surviving, that aint living.

Not really.)

Sometimes she's not sure what she wants anymore.

Sometimes she just wants the world to go away, to fade and quiet and leave her at peace.

Sometimes she envies the dead.

And she thinks about a time not so long ago when she had held a piece of glass to her skin and watched as her blood soaked through her hands and dripped down to the floorboards staining them red beneath her feet; and she remembers the feeling of panic and terror and grief.

Of cowardice.

And she wonders,  _considers,_  if perhaps all that time ago when fear and sorrow had taken over her and spurred her into action…

If perhaps she was on to something.

If maybe her actions hadn't been so cowardly, but yet brave.

Courageous.

And it's at those times, when the prospect of death and giving up is a very real and consuming thought that she hesitantly,  _remorsefully,_  turns to him in a silent and unspoken plea.

And he allows her to.

Doesn't question.

Doesn't lecture.

Just accepts her.

He offers her understanding when no one else is able to, lets her be angry when the others insist she should be grateful, listens to her cry without seeing weakness. And when she needs more, when she needs something,  _someone_ , to brush away the burn and sting of her scars—both new and old, inside and out—he gives that to her too with tentative and unsure willingness—his rough and calloused hands scraping and soothing her skin, reminding her what it's like to give and take and accept.

She knows the rest of them don't necessarily get it. They don't understand how  _he's_ able to calm her hopelessness while easing her desperation.

And sometimes she doesn't quite get it either; remembering a time—when she had looked at him differently through a thick haze of moonshine and smoke, of burned down memories and whispered regrets—when he had been nothing more than a gruff and distant hunter, who saw her as nothing more than a foolish and naïve dead girl.

(Things change.)

And even though there is a long and bloodied path of death and destruction and guilt both behind them and ahead of them, when she's in his arms—when he's inside of her, taking her, consuming her, when the voices in her head have calmed and quieted, drowned out by his breathless pants and then later his slow and even breathing and short and whispered words—she finds herself finally,  _finally,_  settling.

Tentatively allowing that spark of hope—the one that even on her worst days  _he_ refuses to allow her to lose—to flicker and heat and swell.

And she thinks that maybe…

Maybe she just might be okay.

(Surviving might not exactly be the same as living, but it's  _something;_  and for now, in this world, that's enough for her.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Took a few tumblr prompts recently...
> 
> kissmelikeapirate said- Bethyl: 'Just a few minutes more'

 

She's panting now, her breath coming in and out fast; stinted and labored puffs of air echoing in the space between them as her blood runs hot and her hips tilt up just so. She needs more. God she needs more. Her fingers digging into his shoulders, she revels in the way he pulls her closer, jerking her to him like he can't get enough, like he wants to devour her whole.

And she'd let him.

Oh good Lord would she let him.

The scruff of his beard scratching the underside of her jaw, she clutches him tighter; her head falling back and nearly rapping against the wall behind her as he nibbles at her neck—sucking and biting and soothing with lips, teeth and tongue. His mouth hot on her skin, her eyes flutter closed as her legs part slightly and his name slips out on a long drawn-out (embarrassingly) needy moan.

"Gotta be quiet girl." He nearly growls the words against her throat; the hum of his voice on her skin causing her to pull her lower lip into her mouth as her knees tremble weak and her heartbeat thrums and echoes in her ears.

A part of her gears up to snap back some smart retort, intent on placing the blame solely on him (he's the one mauling at her anyway) but she can feel his hand trailing down her hip—calloused fingers breeching the waistband of her pants and dipping between her thighs—and all coherent thoughts flee her head completely.

"So damn hot, so damn wet."

"Daryl." she whimpers his name again; body rocking into his hand as he pushes her underwear to the side, parts her folds, and thumbs at her clit—fingers a little bit clumsy and just shy of rough. "Please…oh…ohhh—I need… _please."_

Any other time she'd be embarrassed by her lack of sound mind.

Her nearly incoherent stuttering.

But now is not one of those times.

(It's been a day and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't planned this, hadn't intentionally cornered him just for  _this_.)

"Somebody's gonna come lookin' soon."

She can hear the hint of self-loathing creep into his voice; can sense the sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pause and his breath catches slightly. But she's feeling a little selfish and far too greedy so instead of soothing, instead of reassuring him and inisisting that what they're doing is nothing to be ashamed of—who cares what the rest of the camp thinks anyway—she cants her hips up against his hand, gently grinding herself onto his fingers. And wrapping an arm around his neck, she draws his head down so her lips can whisper hotly against his ear, her free hand snaking its way between their bodies to where she can feel him jutting against her thigh...

"Just a few minutes more."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Daryl teases beth as he goes down on her.

 

He's definitely trying to kill her.

Slowly and deliberately torturing her.

His movements unhurried and methodical.

His patience firm and unwavering.

His smile lazy and damn near  _sinful_ …

Dipping his head down, he disappears between her parted and trembling thighs; the slide of his lips, the scratch and scrape of his scruff, the hot puff of his breath along her skin, drawing her hips up into an arch as she screws her eyes shut tight and sucks in a deep breath before gasping it out—her breathing stuttering and uneven, her heart pounding and echoing in her ears. His name hangs and lingers in the space between them, a choked off and broken sound, as her fingers curl and twist into the bed sheets beneath her—rough and calloused hands holding her in place as he settles a little more comfortably between her legs, teasing her with light, whisper-soft, caresses; drawing closer and closer to where she's wet and aching and needing him most.

And Lord he's close - so, so close.

But not quite there.

And it's driving her crazy.

_Killing her._

"Daryl please." Her voice is hoarse, her tone wrecked, and she's almost positive she can feel the curve of his lips pulling into another smirk against her skin as her fingers untangle themselves from the twisted sheets to card and thread through his hair, urging him on—higher and higher, closer and closer.

"Oh God please just-just… _come on_."

"Gotta keep quiet girl." His words are gruff and low— _a warning_ —fanning out hot across her sensitive skin as his fingers carefully trail up and up and up until he's feathering light and fleeting touches all over her; nearly dipping into her wet heat, before drawing back once again. Circling her glistening lips and spreading her open, he shifts a little, letting out an appreciative grunt at the naked and exposed sight of her.

For a moment he stays still.

Unmoving, refusing to touch her any further, he draws out her anticipation; a slew of curses running through her head— vulgar, crude, insulting,  _demanding_  words—as he simply waits, leaving her parted open before him, hot and bothered and practically dripping onto the bed.

It's too much.

Not enough.

She needs more.

_More, more, more._

She'd beg him, plead and whine and whimper if she knew it'd make a difference.

(It won't.)

Frustrated, she bucks her hips up towards him once, twice, lets out a tiny shriek when he smacks her smartly; the palm of his hand hitting the outside of her thigh and jarring her a little as her eyes flutter open and she squints down to look at him through fogged and hazy eyes. He's staring up at her unblinkingly, his hand rubbing over her skin tenderly almost as if to both tempt and soothe, before his fingers skirt back up to spread her open for him once more; his eyes never leaving hers—gaze blue and intense and swimming with unchecked hunger and raw unabashed need.

It takes her breath away a little; the way his insecurities and awkwardness seem to melt away when it's just the two of them holed up in their bedroom; tangled in each other—the way he teases her and touches her, fingers sure and confident, eyes sharp and focused, shining with a slightly predatory gleam.

(It wasn't always like this. Not at first. Not when it was all so new and terrifying. When they were still trying to get to know each other. Hands clumsy and fumbling, eyes downcast and uncertain as they had both tried to tip-toe around the other, trying to learn each other, test each other… _love_  each other.)

"I wanna hear ya Greene."

She swallows over the sudden tightness in her throat, his voice ripping her away from her brief reverie and throwing her back into the here and now. Goosebumps prickling their way across her body, she can't help the way she tenses suddenly; hips desperate to thrusts up into his face as he trails a finger up and down her slit, gaze never leaving her as he plays with her cunt.

"But-but you said … you said I gotta keep quiet, you—"

The rest of her words come out as nothing more than a long strangled moan, her body arching up when he plunges two fingers deep inside of her, stretching and burning her as he curves them ever so slightly, drawing a broken curse from her lips as he fucks them in and out of her in a slow, unhurried rhythm.

"Nah. Changed my mind." He adds another finger, continues to stretch her, test her. "Wanna hear ya. Wanna make you scream."

"Fuck." She breathes it out softly, noticing the way his eyes narrow at the word; a noise, one that sounds strangely close to a growl, tumbling past his lips as his free hand digs into her inner thigh and his head dips a little lower; his nostrils flaring as he breathes in the musky scent of her arousal, licking his lips as he watches his fingers disappear inside of her again and again.

And she can't help but whimper and shudder, completely enthralled with the way he's focused entirely on her; fingers lodged deep in her, his mouth hovering just above her, eyes drinking in the sight of her…

She's a lost.

A complete goner.

(Was gone long before he even started.)

(Has been for some time now.)

(After all, it's always been him, only  _ever_  been him.)

And as he slips his fingers out of her, darts his tongue out to lick one long stripe up her center—tasting her, savoring her—before fully settling his mouth on her, shooting her a long and meaningful look as he begins to suck lightly on her clit; she throws her head back, closes her eyes, and moans his name— _Daryl, Daryl, Daryl_ —the whole world fading away to feeling and sensation only as he carefully, and deliberately has his way with her.

Yes…

He's definitely,  _definitely_ trying to kill her.

(But oh Lord, what a way to go.)


End file.
